


Fully Human, (W)hol(l)y Divine

by Anonymous



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Divergence - Set mid-legion sometime probably, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Father/Son Incest, Forbidden Lust, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Kissing, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shadowpriest Anduin, Varian doesn't die on the broken shore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 02:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Anduin and Varian need to find a room when they encounter a storm on the journey home.Implied dubcon - Please read tags
Relationships: Anduin Wrynn/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Anonymous





	Fully Human, (W)hol(l)y Divine

It happens like this, one thing after another – Varian catches himself watching him from horseback, looking at the way he sits upright in his saddle and rocks his hips in time with his mount’s gait. The path they travel is well worn, hard dirt compacted under the fall of countless hooves and boots, but as the clouds break and grey drizzle begins to descend it turns to silky clay underfoot. Anduin turns his face up to the steely sky. His sleek fair hair falls back off his cheeks. It’s long enough now that it touches his collarbones, and Varian catches a glimpse of his profile beneath his fur-lined hood.

Anduin, he thinks, looks sophisticated. Older than his nineteen years. His eyes reflect the vaulted firmament with a patience that Varian cannot partake in. It has been such a long journey, and Varian is spent, and they are just so close to Stormwind now that he feels a yearning for home gouging at his heart. Varian wants to divest himself of his travelling cloak and his entourage, he wants to sink into the silent comfort of solitude again. He finds himself thinking about the relief of that moment, about the allure of a time where he will no longer sense Anduin around him, either lingering in his peripheral or pressing against his mind. Varian loves his son, more fervently than he loves his own life, but travelling with the boy feels like walking with a fragment of stone in his boot. His presence digs against the soft places of his psyche, leaving his thoughts tender and raw, but the worst part is the ache which could also be hunger – the same one which compels a man to press his thumb to the edge of a florid contusion.

Varian knows the road is impassible in bad weather, though. The sky looms dark and grim ahead. He calls the party to stop, as they near a fork in the road, and informs them he has intent to rest the night at an inn, not far from the village ahead.

The inn proves to be a beacon, on the curb of a swelling storm. It’s windows are illuminated by dancing candlelight, and the silhouettes patrons visible through the glass are heartening to behold. Anduin dismounts, as the rain picks up. He is lithe and petite, of excellent form. His soft leather boots make a wet sound in the mud, the kind which send Varian’s insides to coil. He feels a cutting gaze come to rest on his face as he slides out of his own saddle and lands heavily in a puddle on the ground.

Anduin's lips curl. A swift appraisal.

“Graceful, father.”

“It's been a long ride.”

Varian responds.

After their horses are tended, and their guards given coin with which they might find food and lodgings, Varian leads his son into the inn as though they were a pair of nobodies in particular. It’s a delicate illusion, easily broken, and Anduin has to hide his gentility beneath the hood and cloak he wraps around himself tight.

“We have no lodgings,” The barmaid tells them, until Varian impresses four silver coins into the flat of her palm. Suddenly, they _do_ have lodgings available, upstairs on the third floor, but only if the pair of them can pass through the crowds that clot the space between the bar, and the staircase. As they ascend to the third floor Varian can't shake the feeling that it hadn’t really been the silver coins that had bought the girls co-operation. Anduin's face is cast suspiciously neutral, though, and Varian can hardly throw around accusations on the basis of a tension in his jaw.

They reach the room on the third floor, and Varian pushes the door open. It is small and stark and smells of dust, but there is a small fireplace on the back wall and the bed looks cozy. Inviting.

“You sleep there,” Varian told his son. “I can take this.”

The armchair by the fireplace is worn, but Varian can see it was elaborate, once upon a time. The faded velvet upholstery reminds him of the tapestries that adorn his very own bedchamber, and there is comfort in this detail that reminds him of home. The rain ticks steadily on the window, and the sound of merriment downstairs echoes up the stairwell to their door. Varian hopes distantly that their entourage was able to find lodgings in the surrounding town, and reassures himself that they are familiar with how these kinds of nights unfold. When it comes to spending evenings on progress, without a mage or a hearthstone at their disposal, the guardsmen know that it’s safer for the King and his heir to be left alone. He still feels bad about it, but he doesn’t want to risk calling attention to their party. This is the only way to be secure.

Anduin divests himself of his cloak with a sigh, revealing an elegant frame clad in foxskin, and silk, and leather. The way he clothes himself always makes Varian feel disheveled - Varian's own rough wardrobe is wrought of broadcloth, and mail. It is marred by dust, and stained with blood, and most importantly it is all worn thin by the passage of time. Tiffin used to buy him new clothes, when she was alive, but all the textiles she had procured for him were now worn, and subject to decay. There was only one thing she left him which was still as good as new. Or perhaps it had become even richer in decades, in the same manner that wine becomes more narcotic with age.

Anduin kneels before the hearth, and with a tinderbox he carried in his saddlebag he lights the pile of grubby sticks scattered in the grate. Varian peels off his damp jacket, and his vest. He decides that his undershirt and pants are clean enough that he does not need to remove them, as well. With the fire crackling, the space warms quickly. The familiar scent of wood burning is another layer of familiarity. It’s enough to suppress the stirring in Varian’s heart when Anduin drifts past him towards the window. The table beneath the ledge bears a pewter jug and a porcelain bowl, of the kind large enough to be used for ablutions. 

“Do you suppose they have somewhere I can bathe?” Anduin muses as he audits the bowl, studying the blurry blue roses painted around the edge and the large, grey crack that hobbles across the base to the rim.

“No,” Varian answers, remembering the smell that had hit them when they entered the building. The chickens that had been scratching on the floor, in rooms where people were eating and drinking, alluded to a certain... dearth of amenities. “But there's a cauldron beside the hearth. Go fetch some water from the kitchen, and we can heat it over the fire.”

The solution is a little rustic, enough to make Anduin crinkle his nose in disgust, but for lack of a better alternative it will suffice.

Anduin disappears for all of five minutes. He returns, as though he had never left, with a cauldron overflowing with cold water. Varian had not elaborated, on how Anduin ought to have convinced the barmaid to grant passage to the kitchens. He can tell by the way Anduin does not meet his eye now, that he had not needed to. His consent was implicit in his instruction, and as loathe as Varian was to allow it, the deed was done. The harm was negligible. Or at least, it was negligible so far as he can see it, now.

Varian shows him how to set the cauldron on the hook overhanging the fire. He settles in his armchair, and Anduin sits cross legged on the hard, bare floor. He leans against Varian's knee, and they do not speak, but Varian thinks of nothing but the misty grey that descended on the earth to ensnare them. Was this a punishment, of some variety? Being cloistered here in this room this evening, with a person who feels too big for both this building and the inside of Varian's skull?

The last of the grey daylight fades, as the cauldron begins to boil. Steam coils on the surface like smoke, plumes of ash glinting on a foggy skyline. Anduin rises to take the water off, and his knee cracks like a bolt loaded into a crossbow. Thick hessian rags insulate his hands from the cast iron of the pot. Varian watches carefully, the way he pours the water into the bowl beneath the window, and then as he conjures felted soap and kingsblood oil and a rough facecloth from the pockets of his discarded coat. Anduin carries such things everywhere, as his mother did. Either in his coat, or in a satin purse on his hip. It’s a concession for vanity, but it makes Varian's heart twinge. He wonders if Anduin knows he is emulating a dead woman, or if he had plucked the memory from Varian's mind and consequentially, does it on purpose.

There is a blink of lightning visible out the window; it splits the greying sky asunder, and is followed by a rumbling grow rolling over the horizon. Untroubled, Anduin peels off his shirt. Varian sinks lower in his armchair, observing as he washes his back, his underarms, and his shoulders. His skin is creamy silk on his arms, but melts into gnarled scarring over one side of his torso. He carries himself so well, for someone who was once so irrevocably broken, but perhaps he carries himself so well _because_ he was so irrevocably broken – he had so much more capacity to design himself to his own liking, a second time around.

Varian wonders how much longer it will be, before he gives in to him. Before he finally relinquishes himself, and succumbs to the press of the will which he can feel even now, compelling his gaze. Anduin makes it so he can’t tear his eyes away from his long, slim legs. Makes it so his heart skips a beat when those pants slip off, and Anduin stands there unguarded in translucent linen smallclothes. Would giving in bring him respite, he wonders, or would it simply make it worse? Varian thinks of scratching a mosquito bite, the way the itch spreads and deepens to the point that it burns, and yet he knows from experience that the compulsion to scratch such a wound will not relent. He feels a tugging at his mind, again, and of course he tries to resist, again. Ultimately though, he knows it won’t be long at all. Suddenly, he realizes that he has no way to justify trying to pretend anymore. It happens like this, and it will _always_ happen like this – it was written in the stars before Anduin was even born.

There is a certain sense of bliss, in compliance, and it feels like a unique kind of reverence, to submit. Within the window of a moment, Varian feels multitudes of relief, and tension evaporates from his frame in places he hadn't even noticed it manifest. As if sensing his walls collapsing, Anduin hesitates. He cocks his head, still clutching the damp facecloth in his hand, and glances at Varian over his shoulder. He is suspicious at first, and then quite promptly he becomes calculating. And then, without warning, without even batting an eye, Varian feels him slip in properly and caress his thoughts like a lover might caress his thigh.

As if from a great distance, as if he is removed from himself and looking down on the scene as it unfolds, Varian watches Anduin set down his soap and cloth on the table. He watches him turn around, a perfect beauty, and make a subtle gesture with his hand. Like a marionette commanded by a puppet master, Varian stands up and walks to the bed. His knees feel loose and fragile under his weight. The aged, rickety bed he comes to rest on is no more stable – it groans as he collapses against it, and as Anduin joins him there to crawl atop his body. That curtain of blond hair hangs in Varian's face, fragrant and ticklish and soft. It trails filigree murmurs over Varian's cheeks, when Anduin leans in close, and kisses him.

He has mouth like orchids, and that milky, numbing tea that healers use sometimes, to dispel poison.

Anduin’s nakedness is opulent. It’s tangible even through the coarse linen of Varian's shirt. A gentle hand, the nails sculpted ovals and just sharp enough to prick his skin, eases over the ridges of Varian's hip. It follows the trail of dark hair that dips between his legs, and finds Varian's cock already hardening inside his pants. The touch, beguiling and light, makes Varian turn to jelly where he lies.

Anduin smiles, the curve of his lips warm against Varian's cheek.

“Feel good?” He asks, and Varian nods, because it _does_ feel good if he closes his eyes and swallows his heart and tries not to think too hard about how long he had resisted this. What a sunk cost it was, only to find himself here after all. He supposes that’s what he deserves, for trying to defy the lot that fortune had long ago cast for him. Anduin pulls him over, and opens his legs to accommodate Varian’s body. He pushes his hands through Varian's hair, and invites him to kiss the places that had always been unmanifest, mysterious under his tunics and the faint, enticing glamour of the forbidden.

Varian is aghast, by how ardently he gropes at the body beneath him. He is terrified, by how the swelling wave of lust rises in his belly, and yet for a perfect moment he is also euphoric, and he is fortunate enough to forget that Anduin is...

Magnificent, certainly. Incredible. Divine. Varian can’t believe something so radiant had sprung from his own aching loins, and with that thought he balks again against the understanding that this is truly an abhorrent thing, that they are doing. The attraction that draws them together seems to come from that hideous genesis, as though Anduin is pulling at the same blood that had been split, and decanted into his veins. It thrums traitorously in Varian's cock as Anduin arcs against him, and grinds himself hard against Varian’s belly. The friction curls fingers of pleasure around the contours of his spine, and he groans into the side of Anduin's neck. Anduin echoes with a quiet moan - his own erection is small, but hot, pressing against Varian's shaft through layers of restrictive, torturous clothing.

“It’s big,” Anduin breaths, and Varian feels a shiver of embarrassment over something that he cannot control, nor ever considered to be a deficiency.

“Is it?”

“Uh huh.” His satisfaction is tangible in the sound of his voice. It’s sharp and spine tingling, like the coiling touch that wriggles between their bodies, and slides beneath the waistband of Varian's pants. His fingers are unexpectedly chilled, but gentle. Varian props himself up to give easier access. He buttresses Anduin against the mattress, frames him with thick arms and his own loose hair like ebony and illuminated by threads of white. Anduin looks up at him with cryptic eyes, reflecting the Firelight, prismatic blue and black at the same time. His lashes fan over his cheeks when he glances down, peering into the gap where their bodies still touch and where Varian can see his cockhead, peeking through. Anduin touches it like he knows he is teasing, and it feels heavenly when he smears the precum that beads at the tip.

“Touch me?” He asks, and it’s a question but it’s also an order. Varian almost loses his balance as he gropes for the outline of his cock beneath his linens. The caress makes Anduin shake, melt into the heat of a calloused hand pressing his erection against his belly. They stroke each other, and Anduin kisses him again, and his kisses are accented with teeth and tongue and breath like he is trying to speak magic between their lungs. At some stage, Varian notices the gauntlet on his mind loosening. The line between his will and his puppeteers becomes hazy, and nebulous. The deeper Anduin sinks into pleasure, the harder it becomes for him to retain control, yet the deeper he sinks the further Varian is willing to follow him down.

Submission is replaced with an all-consuming hunger, something that cannot be bridled. It finds itself sated only in the pleasure that multiplies beneath Anduin's hand.

Varian wonders, transiently, if there is time enough to fuck him. If there are enough moments between this one, and the end, for Anduin to push him over and hold him down and take from him with ruthless intensity. When he closes his eyes, he feels the bed against his back, he feels the clasp of thighs around his hips, and he imagines Anduin's body working over his cock to take him in hard, and unspeakably deep. Varian envisions his mind, groping at Varian's throat and pushing beneath his ribs, and the warping twisting shadows that clench like a fist around his viscera.

Anduin shudders. His lips part in a quiet prayer of bliss. Varian feels his own climax inching over his skin, and he bows over Anduin's body like a man in worship, sinking his teeth into the side of his neck to muffle the sound of his release surging through him. Anduin's orgasm sounds like ecstasy, just as pretty as his face, and if Varian hadn’t been so enthralled by him already then this would have been the thing that did it.

This would have been the thing.

Anduin's hands tremble as he releases Varian's cock, and lazily he brushes them soft against his stomach. His face blurs into focus again, his cheeks blotched with pink, and Varian feels something like the brume on a grey dawn spread through his head. Denial was a word for it, probably. A shock that arose when processing the gap, between a glimmering vista and a shameful aftermath. Varian slides off him, lies prone on the bed. Anduin seems content, remaining where he lay with his hair like golden blood spatter against the pillowslip. The linen looks sallow compared to him, his lips are dark and sweet like cherries, his eyes, which are usually so bright, are roiling now with complacent darkness.

The bedsheets rustle as Anduin rolls onto his side and winds his body around Varian’s again. Smiling to himself, he traces his finger over the scars on Varian's face. He brushes his thumb against his mouth, then presses it between his lips against his teeth. Varian allows him entrance, allows his fingers to plunder his tongue and push against the crags of his molars. He feels like an animal, being examined for sale, but Anduin's thigh slung over his hip tightens in a way that seems to placate this emotion, somehow. It’s an oppressive magic, but a comforting one. When Varian blinks, he feels the world fall away from under him, like it ceases to exist when he isn’t seeing it, and when he opens his eyes, he sees him there filling his vision again.

Anduin’s smile widens. The air between them thickens. It morphs in prismatic glyphs that Varian doesn’t recognize, symbols which are lighter than light, and darker than the core of the void itself. Varian feels he is teetering on the cusp of oblivion, thinks that Anduin is falling away, and that buried beneath his skin there is a creature that Varian cannot even begin to describe. Anduin is a creature of burning light, of countless eyes. He is the drone that preceded the point from which the universe itself might have sprung. Varian feels his chest expand. Feels Anduin coil closer around him like bindings.

 _He’s just a boy,_ Varian says to himself, as Anduin leans in and kisses him, slowly, and sweet, and deep. _He’s just my son._

But nothing is ever the same, after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so angels definitely can have sex with humans in case anyone was wondering. I probably wouldn't advise it but.
> 
> yaknow.


End file.
